Bike Trail by Matthew Milia

On the bike trail of pale white chalk
Where I surveil the loading dock
That's chipping in the wailing shock
Of the mercilessly electric creatures

The deranged men who shirtlessly stalk
The desperate features in their walk
Until the melt like boiling caulk
On the metal of the blacktop bleachers

The summer has an open hymen
The Sylvan Manor baseball diamond
Rattles hot with tattletales
So frailly shot into the night

Christopher keeps the receipts
For all the love that no one eats
In the glassy office complex suites
Behind which the ditch heats and squiggles

Where all the deathlike little birds
And the yearlings in their little herds
And the perversion of my words
Gets trapped and sweats and frets and wriggles

In a grouping of the tower spines
And the flaccid drooping power lines
Where I'm recouping what is mine
From the placidly eternal

Hot day when the sprinklers vent
A burning rubber aqua scent
And evaporate all that I've meant
About the mercilessly electric creatures

But how do they hone the drone and tune it
To the gargle of the backyard AC unit?
It rattles hot with tattletales
So frailly shot into the night